The trees themselves looked skeletonized, like giant ominous stick figures towering over everything.
His neighbor’s body was lying there, across the street, unmoved since earlier.
Dan walked with a sort of breathlessness. He was on edge, anxious, and afraid. He was unprepared and he knew it.
He didn’t like the idea of walking. He felt completely out in the open, completely exposed, despite the cover of the darkness. Soon the clouds might zoom on past, heading somewhere else, leaving the moon exposed again, able to illuminate Dan and the rest of the street with an eerie accuracy.
His Grandfather had sold the car not long before the EMP. He hadn’t been able to drive, and he’d figured it was the last car he’d ever have. Dan took the bus to school, and usually got a ride to the hardware store, or walked when he couldn’t.
Not that Dan knew how to drive, but he figured he’d probably be able to figure it out. A car would have been good. Maybe he’d get lucky and find some neighbor’s car abandoned, the keys nearby in an easily-noticeable hiding place, like over the tire or under the chassis in one of those little magnetic boxes.
But if he found a car, found the key, and figured out how to drive, what would he do if he were driving down the road and ran into the that convoy of military vehicles?
He’d probably wind up dead. Dan didn’t hold any illusions that being a kid would protect him. Those men had been willing to shoot his neighbor dead like that. There wouldn’t have any reservations about slaughtering whoever got in their way.
And he’d be a bigger target with a car.
Then again, he did have a road map packed away. Maybe he could find a route that was off the beaten path.
Towards the end of the road, there was a curve. Dan followed it around, feeling even more on edge the further he got from the house.
There was a red house situated on the bend that Dan knew well. It was the home of one of the boys in his grade who’d never missed an opportunity to torment Dan for his stature or anything else he could think of.
The red house had a large lawn, the largest in the neighborhood, because of the way the front yard curved around it.
The front door was wide open. It opened to the outside, without any screen or storm door. The front door was blowing in the wind, which kept knocking it earlier against the side of the house, the lower portion made of brick.
Dan peered through the darkness. There was something on the lawn. As he got closer, it came into view.
It was a body. A man. Mr. Davies, the father of Tommy, Dan’s school bully. He was lying on his back in the front yard, his stomach pieced with bullets. Another victim of the unknown military vehicles, figured Dan.
Dan may not have liked Tommy, the son. But he felt like he had a duty. Was Tommy still there? He’d figured his family had left long ago, off to some unknown destination right after the EMP, when it had seemed like everyone in the neighborhood was fleeing.
Dan gripped his knife tighter as he approached the house. He stood at the threshold, with the door banging against the house next to him, gazing into the yawning darkness.
He had no flashlight. Sure, he’d packed candles, but they weren’t going to be any good in this wind unless he went in and closed the door behind him. And he had no intention of doing that.
“Tommy?” he yelled.
He didn’t know if he was hoping for an answer or not.
Sure, he’d hated Tommy with all his guts. But that was before the EMP. He didn’t want him to be dead.
“Anyone there?”
No answer.
If someone had been there, the door would have been closed.
Should he go in and look for supplies?
No.
He couldn’t carry anything more than what he had. There’d be other houses along the way. When he ran out of food, hopefully he’d be able to find some.
Dan stepped away from the open door, walked past the body of his neighbor, and continued on his way.
He roughly knew the way. He had a road map with him. At some point he’d have to consult it.
The darkness seemed to surround him as he got farther and farther from the home he’d lived in all his life. The reality of the situation started to sink in more than it had so far. It seemed as if everyone he knew was probably dead. He’d narrowly missed being killed himself only hours earlier.
And there was no one to help him.
11
The coin-filled sock smashed into Art’s stomach yet again.
“Just kill me,” he muttered. “Just do it. There’s no point to this. There’s no point in keeping me alive.”
He knew that there must have been some point. Otherwise they wouldn’t have taken the measures they had, wearing the marks, using the sock rather than something simpler like a knife.
They didn’t want to just torture him. They wanted something from him.
But so far they hadn’t told him what it was. They hadn’t said anything in some time. They’d just been hitting him, causing him as much pain as they could. They took breaks when they needed to. They’d hand the sock between themselves when one of them got tired.
Maybe they were trying to break him down enough that he’d do what they wanted.
He was hoping to spur them on, get them to start talking.
“Just kill me already,” he said again, knowing full well that they wouldn’t.
Art waited for the next impact, the next blow. His abdominal muscles tensed instinctively, already trying to fight against the impact.
But it didn’t come.
He opened his eyes, which had been closed out of fear. Fear of the pain. He couldn’t help it.
The three plastic bag faces were clustered together, right in front of him.
“You think he’s ready?”
“Yeah, he’s had enough.”
“So you’re from the militia,” said one of them.
“Yeah,” said Art. It hurt him to nod his head. It hurt him to speak. But speaking was all he had left. It was the only way he had out of this. It was almost funny, he thought, his mind going to a strange place. Before entering the house, he’d been on the verge of suicide. Everything had seemed so pointless, so hopeless, that he’d found some perverted solace in the thought of simply dying.
But now that his life was threatened by others, he was desperate to save it. And it was even stranger that he was now in great physical pain, with every reason to want them to simply end his life. Maybe it was the sense of adversity, the sense of a real challenge, that plunged him into that instinctual world where the will to survive grew strong once again.
“They sent me here to take your plans. They want to eliminate all you. But don’t misunderstand me. I’m not really one of them. They forced me to join. They were going to kill me if I didn’t.”
“That’s what all of you say.”
“That’s because it’s true.”
“Not for all of you. There are plenty of you who joined up for all the wrong reasons. Or the right reasons, as you call them.”
“I’m not like that,” pleaded Art. “Trust me. I’m not really one of them.”
“Maybe you’re telling the truth. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter.”
“Do you think he’s ready?”
“Yeah, I think he’s definitely ready.”
“Are you kidding? Give him a few more good whacks.”
“Why?”
“He’s obviously not ready yet.”
“How can you tell?”
“I can’t. And neither can you. That’s the whole point.”
“Screw it. Just try it out. If he’s not ready, we’ll beat him some more.”
“I’m ready,” said Art, not having the slightest idea what he was supposed to be ready for. “I’m ready. Whatever you want.” He spoke with pain, breathing hard between every word.